His Violin
by Shabambi
Summary: Post- Reichenbach  After Sherlock left, John had a hard time coping. Until he remembered Sherlock's violin.  Don't hurt me because of this. It's my first Sherlock story. Rates and welcome.  Hints of S/J if you wish it to be.


The first year of his death, John was a wreck. Everywhere he went, everything he did, reminded him of Sherlock. Every night he would lay awake in bed thinking of all the ways he might have been able to save Sherlock. Granted, he would have been able to do nothing then, and nothing could be done now, so it was pointless thinking of it. Those few times when John did somehow manage to get to sleep, he would wake up in a few hours with fear from the nightmares he would have. Horrid dreams about Sherlock and how he looked when he jumped. No. Not jumped. Fell. John always corrected himself when he thought of Sherlock jumping. It just wasn't something he would do; jump. Now if Moriarty had pushed him, John could believe that. But he doesn't think he did. Therefore, that statement was irrelevant.

It was nights like these, when John couldn't sleep, that he would get up and make a cup of tea. He would go into the living room, sit in Sherlock's seat, and just think. Eventually he would fall asleep on the couch and wake up with a pain in his shoulder and neck.

One night, though, no matter how hard he tried, John just could not fall asleep. It was this night in particular that he saw the light from the kitchen reflect off something in the corner of the living room. He realized, after getting up to look, that the light was reflecting off Sherlock's violin. This was the night that things started turning around for the better.

It was that night that John started learning the violin. Well relearning. He played when he was five until he was about twenty. Then he went off to war and hadn't played since. But because he found the violin, he was able to get back on track.

John still helped out with the DI's whenever he could. DI Lestrade knew how hard it was for John. He had, after all, lost not only a flat mate, but a friend. So it came as quite a shock when John bounded into the room with a smile on his face in the middle of November, as he helped out with a case. But whenever someone asked about his mood, John would just shrug, say he was in a good mood, and continue on with the investigating.

During the second year after Sherlock's death, John had left all his sadness behind. Well mostly. During the week that Sherlock had died, John wouldn't talk to anyone. He stayed in his flat and played the violin until the week was over. He had forgotten in that time period in Afghanistan what it was like to play music. It filled him with joy. John was pleased to know that he was able to play such wonderful music.

One day, Mrs. Hudson heard him playing. She walked into the room and sat in the chair just listening to John play. When he finished, Mrs. Hudson clapped and proceeded to wipe the tears from her eyes.

"I think that piece would have given Sherlock a run for his money." she exclaimed.

John blushed and mumbled a thanks.

It was nearing Christmas and, with the persuasion from Mrs. Hudson, John was throwing a party. Only a few people were invited to come, though. Some, like Anderson, were not permitted in the flat, even with Sherlock not being there.

After everyone, which consisted of John, Mrs. Hudson, DI Greg Lestrade, Molly, and Mycroft, exchanged their gifts, Mrs. Hudson spoke out.

"You know," she started, "John had been playing the violin and he's wonderful at it."

All eyes turned towards John.

"Well…" he sputtered, turning red as the attention was on him. "I'm not sure about wonderful."

"Don't be so modest, John!" Greg said. "Well… play for us!"

So John did. He played many Christmas songs and other songs for the holidays. He ended with the song Sherlock always played at these Christmas 'parties' he and John would have, 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas'. John played that song exactly like how Sherlock would have, including the ending Sherlock added. **(A/N: I don't really know how to describe how Sherlock ended this song. But this is the link so you can listen to it to hear just how John would have played it ****.com/watch?v=Q4UP9C5Xxwk****)**

There was a silence. John coughed. "Yeah. So… yeah." he said.

"That… that was brilliant, John!" Molly exclaimed, making John blush again.

"Err… thanks Molly." he managed to get out. No one has ever called him brilliant. Well except once when Sherlock didn't notice something in one of the cases and John did. But that was only once.

It was in the middle of the third year that John was without Sherlock, that he was called in by DI Lestrade for a 'very important case that we need help with'. John, since he had nothing better to do (he quietly wondered if this was how Sherlock felt when he was bored), decided to go in.

Which was how John found himself at a crime scene on the other side of town.

"Well this was definitely murder." John said as he stood up from where he was looking at the woman lying on the floor.

"We know that," Anderson said impatient rolling his eyes. "What we want to know is how and why she died." Lestrade shot him a look that plainly said _If you don't shut your mouth right now, you will be out of a job. He knows why he is here, and I believe he can help us. So shut up!_

John smirked as Anderson backed off. "Well, Anderson," he started, "this girl looks to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She was killed by a blow to her head with something aluminum, perhaps an aluminum baseball bat. There are traces of aluminum in her hair, that's how I know, Anderson." He put that piece of info in because Anderson had looked like he was going to ask why he knew that. "Anyway, she tried to fight back against whomever was coming after her. You can see it in her nails and by the bruises on her arms and legs where she was more than likely getting beat up by the attacker. There is a cut on the back of her leg, probably because as she was backing up, she ran into that dresser. There are traces of blood on the dresser, so don't bother asking how I know that, Anderson."

"I wasn't going to ask!" Anderson defended. But it was pointless. He was going to ask, and John knew it.

"Right, okay."

"Could you tell us who killed her?" Lestrade said butting into this conversation.

"Well I'm not entirely sure, but I believe it was her boyfriend. Or should I say fiancé."

"WHAT?" the whole room looked at John as he made a Sherlockian conclusion.

"Well it seems to be that her fiancé was the murderer."

"We got that. But how did you come up with the answer?" Sally Donovan asked, clearly annoyed that John might have the answer.

"Well I'm no Sherlock, but there is a ring in her back pocket. It's shiny, but has traces of dirt on it, but not a lot, showing that it's relatively knew. Perhaps around four or five months old. However, she doesn't have a mark on her finger like you would if you were to take a ring off your own finger, which shows that she doesn't wear it often. That also shows that she is not being faithful to her fiancé. This could only mean that her fiancé found out about her relationship with this other person and got very upset at it. So he lashed out. He ended up grabbing her wrists to stop her from fighting back, that's where these bruise marks came from. When she didn't stop fighting he let go, which is when she fell into the dresser and cut her leg. She got up and kept fighting back, which is why her nails are scraped down to almost nothing and the nail polish is tearing off. But, desperate times call for desperate measures. Her fiancé wanted her to stop so he grabbed the nearest thing, which presumably was an aluminum bat and hit her in the head. Now normally that wouldn't kill someone, if the person was swinging at them softly. But since her fiancé had all that anger in him, he swung a little too hard. And that blow to the head was what killed her. He probably got scared after she didn't get up and stopped fighting, which is when he realized what exactly he did. He is probably at home, with the bat, packing some things to run away from here so he doesn't get caught. Any more questions?"

The room was silent.

"Well, John, that was a very good deduction. Well done. It sounded to me like you were turning into a miniature Sherlock right then!" Lestrade said with a smile.

"I noticed that too. I hope I don't turn into him. I don't think I could handle all that thinking!" John said with a laugh.

"Freak" Sally murmured under her breath.

John spun around, an angry look in his eyes. Sally was genuinely scared. She was never scared. But something in John's eyes made her frightened. John was about to yell at her, when he closed his eyes and let out a long breath.

"Detective Inspector, I think I will be heading home now." John said between clenched teeth, as he headed out of the room.

When John got home he was angry. He threw his stuff down on the sofa and walked over to the violin. He heard someone moving around in the kitchen, but paid little mind to it.

"Mrs. Hudson, could you make me a cup of tea, John yelled across the room."

"I'm not your housekeeper, Dearie!" Mrs. Hudson yelled back.

John paid no attention to the fact that Mrs. Hudson's voice came from downstairs, or that there was still someone in his kitchen. He just grabbed the violin and started playing the scales. The noise from the kitchen abruptly stopped as John played the first note. But again, John didn't care.

He continued playing as if nothing had happened. He kept his eyes closed as he remembered the notes Sherlock had played years before. He let the music take over him as he moved about the room. He played the song Sherlock had composed a week or two before his death. John had played the song a lot over the course of three years and now knew it by heart. He didn't understand how the song was supposed to go. Was it supposed to be a romantic love song? Or perhaps a friendly upbeat song. Not really caring, John played it as a romantic song with a hint of sadness added to it. He concluded the song and as he did so, he felt more relaxed. He opened his eyes and walked over to where the violin case was and gently set it down. There was clapping from behind him. It wasn't soft delicate claps, like Mrs. Hudson's claps, nor was it loud and abrupt claps, like Lestrade's claps. They were short, long claps. And that was the reason he straightened up and whirled around, the bow still in hand.

And that's when he saw him.

John just stood there, not really believing him to be in this house. For the past three years John thought him to be dead. No. it couldn't be. He is not here.

"You know, you are quite good. You would most definitely give me a run for my money." the man said stepping out from the doorway.

"You… Why are you here?" John asked. His voice shook. But John wasn't scared. He wasn't sure _why_ he wasn't scared. I mean, come on! Sherlock is standing in his doorway, _alive_ and John is just relieved. But yet his voice shook.

"Well obviously I remembered when my flat was and I just walked up the stairs into the room. Then I was bored. So I made tea. Would you like some? I bought biscuits too."

"That's not really what I meant, Sherlock." John said sitting down. Shock. He realized that shock was the reason why his voice quavered.

"Well I'm not dead. Ta-dah?" Sherlock said that last part as if it was a question. As if he was not sure how John would react.

"I get that too, Sherlock."

"Oh."

Silence filled the air in the flat as both men sipped their tea.

"Okay, next question. Why now? I mean, why come back after three years if you weren't actually, you know, dead?"

"Well I thought it would better for you. At first it was because of Moriarty. I wanted to be sure that nothing would happen. That was two years ago. I came back one day to see how you were coping, and I saw that you were fine. I thought that you didn't need me anymore, so I didn't return here. But then my curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to know how you were doing, what kind of job you had, who you were friends with. I came back today, and followed you to the crime scene across town. You came out fuming, though I wasn't sure why. I knew that since you were upset you were going to find the longest route home and then walk it. Which is why I didn't follow you. I stayed because everyone else was coming out of the apartment. That's when I heard Lestrade having a row at Donavon.

'_You couldn't have just kept you mouth shut, now could you?' _Lestrade was yelling.

'_It's not my fault he had to go all Freak like and just explain how Shelby died, who the murderer was, and why she was killed in the course of the hour!' _she exclaimed."

Sherlock turned and looked at John. "I was pleased, you know. Pleased that I had rubbed off on you. And then I realized why you were upset. Sally called you _Freak_. That's when I realized that you were coping, but having a hard time doing so. So I hailed a taxi and came here. The rest you know. I made tea, heard you play _my_ violin, and now here we are."

John just stared into his cup of tea as all of this sank in.

"I didn't believe that you had died. Not really. Everyone said to move on, but I couldn't. I didn't want to believe you had died. I'm glad I didn't." John said looking up at Sherlock with a slight smile and laughed. "I just wish you would have came back earlier, you idiot!"

Sherlock let go of a breath he didn't know he had been holding and smiled. He was back in John's life, this time for good.


End file.
